The Uncanny Adventures of Lyra the Large
by MAGO5
Summary: In her latest act of infatuation with the mythical race of "humans," Lyra Heartstrings the unicorn manages to simultaneously transform herself into a human and teleport to their wonderful world. But, when her spell goes awry, she finds her human body has grown to superhuman stature, which inevitably causes her to cross paths with the Dark Knight himself.
1. I'm Huge In Gotham

We begin our story during the nighttime, in a dark alley. Quite dank, too. The recent downpour upon the grimy city had filled the air with moisture and sent the gutters running with foul water, disturbing the inebriated bums who made their perch there. They stirred and gripped their paper-bag-wrapped bottles tighter, pulling their ragged garments closer to their bodies, away from the unforgiving cold of the concrete jungle. In the distance, sirens sounded. To a resident, this sound was not uncommon. In fact, it would be quite jarring to go at least an hour through the night and not hear one. Their far-off wail was like a lullaby, a nocturnal birdsong for the resting populace; a soothing ambiance for the waking. The smell of motor vehicles hung thick in the air. Fetid. Choking. Unbearable. Yet, not one seemed to mind. They were born breathing the stink. They lived in it. They died in it. Even as it coated one's skin and left an uncomfortable, unwashable feeling crawling over one's flesh, it was just another thing they bore without a thought. Clouds, both natural and of smog, listed over the night sky. They glazed over the tall skyscrapers of the city's center, where all the beautiful people lived and worked and partied and partook in every hedonistic venture under the moon. The people on the ground, the gutter scrapers, the bottom feeders, the jobless, the homeless, the hopeless... they are left to look up and dream while writhing in their needles, their powders, their own malodorous pleasures.

There was flash within the aforementioned alley. Not a particularly bright or blinding flash, though. A blip, like someone flipped a switch and a light bulb went dead in a more-brilliant-than-usual flair of white, leaving only a darkened room. No loud sounds were heard. No crack of discharging energy, no gunshot of deafening power. Just a small, strange whistle, accompanied by a low buzz. No one witnessed it. No one considered the perplexing image of a small, young woman suddenly in a place where she was not before. Nobody saw her stagger on all fours through the empty alley in a severely out-of-place yellow sundress. The garment itself looked homemade: nice enough to look good and function as clothing, but carried telltale signs of hand-stitching and, in some places, poor foresight and tailoring skills. The dress was probably not the best choice for the weather, either. Summer was quickly turning into Autumn. The air was getting colder, the wind harsher. Soon, rain would turn to snow and the citizens would don whatever winter clothing they have as they went about their business. If witnesses were present, one could also note the strange color of this girl's hair as she shakily rose to her soft, bare feet. Mint, with a stripe of white across the top. Its stylization was nearly immaculate, firm without a hint of hair product, as if it was tediously cared for every morning and subjected to unknown maintenance rituals that the average fashionista would do questionable things to obtain. The girl stumbled backwards a bit, her arms stretched in an attempt to balance herself or, at the very least, catch something to hold onto. She did; her grasping fingers found purchase on the side of a dumpster. She breathed heavily. Then, the girl sniffed the air, made a face, and concluded that this object she was leaning on was _not_ something she wanted to be around. After backing up, she seemed to have gotten a feel for standing upright and paused for a moment of silence.

Lyra Heartstrings looked down at her hands. _Her hands!_ A smile crept on her new face. The spell had worked! It had turned her into one of _them!_ Exactly the way she had envisioned it. She brought them up to her flat, human face, drawing a mental image of what she looked like with her fingers. She brought them down, tracing the curves of the rest of her body, down to her exposed shins. Her new, hairless skin was light, soft, tingly to the touch. In fact, she felt tingly all over. Weird. Must be the aftereffect of the magic. It had, after all, simultaneously transformed her into a human and transported her to the human world. Quite a magically taxing accomplishment. Speaking of which, she twisted around, fumbling her footing a bit, taking in the sights and smells and sounds of this grand new place.

It was... not what she expected. The place looked a lot like Manehattan, but it was somehow... darker. Perpetually darker. And smellier. The acrid smoke that wafted into her nostrils made her want to sneeze and gag at the same time. There was a constant blanket of noise going on beyond the surrounding walls. Rumbles, honks, and squealing of unknown origin... it put her on edge.

But that was not going to deter her. Even as her bare, smooth feet were suffering from the cold and the jagged surface of the wet alleyway, she kept her head level. There was no turning back now. Her hand drifted to her forehead, where her horn was a moment ago. It was no longer there. She was no longer capable of performing magic, no longer capable of returning to Ponyville with Bon-Bon and Twilight and Derpy and all the rest of her friends-

She bit her thoughts back and shoved them out of her mind. She was no longer Lyra the unicorn, no longer a citizen of Equestria. She was Lyra the _human_, ready to make her way in this human-filled world! She would be brave, stalwart. She would find her place in this city without the use of magic! She would...

Where was she, anyway?

Her arms shot out, perpendicular to her body, as she gracelessly tried to keep herself from falling on her face. Back bent and flat footed, she walked down the narrow alleyway. She needed to get this walking upright thing down before somepony-correction: _someone_-saw her. What a sight to other humans she must have been, she thought. Staggering around like a newborn foal. Not a pony foal, those can usually walk seconds after birth. A _human_ foal. She learned that they need to develop that skill over a year or so. She couldn't blame them! This was _hard!_ How they ever found out how to do this is a mystery to her. But, after a few more step down the frigid corridor, she was able to establish a sort-of rhythm. Lyra tried stopping. She bent forward a bit, her arms circling in wide strokes while she attempted to catch the air and prevent an unwanted faceplant. Fortunately, she succeeded, and stood upright. Next she tried walking again. It was easier than last time and she didn't have to hold her arms out too much for balance. She stopped. Again, it was easier. Euphoric from her progress so far, she tried walking backwards.

"Oof!"

_"That didn't work,"_ she thought to herself, cautiously pushing herself off the ground while rubbing her tender rump. She wasn't going to try that again for a while.

Something on the wall caught her eye. It wasn't hard to notice, as it took up a good space upon the wall. Sheets of paper plastered over one another. She stepped closer. They were all the same: weathered, slightly soggy, all containing the same... unnerving collection of things. Robots, a tentacle, fur-covered bipeds, some regular humans (one with a beard and a really tall black hat), a... _decapitated head_ with snakes for hair, a scaly large-eyed thing... was that a minotaur on the left? How strange. Each of them had large, stylized lettering that took up a large portion of the poster, as if it wanted to shout it to all passerbyers.

**_"CLUTCH: Live in Gotham"_**

What was a "Clutch", she wondered, and "Gotham"? What were they? Then, it dawned on her. She felt like kicking herself for not drawing the conclusion. The human world was a lot like her world. Either inhabitant could point out that this was a _concert poster!_ A live performance by Clutch in Gotham. Was that where she was? Gotham... she kinda liked the name. It sounded... fitting for the impression she was provided so far.

Her brow furrowed as she realized that the tingling sensation all over her skin was still there. Like countless needles lightly poking her, leaving no mark. She would be lying if she said it wasn't bothering her, but she forced herself to ignore it. It'll go away in time. She was sure of it.

Now that she had an idea of where she was, Lyra decided to press onward. The alley she appeared in didn't seem to have a clear exit into the open, so she picked a direction and-falteringly-began to march. The scenery didn't change much. The tall brick walls still loomed over her, the ever-present racket beyond was still drilling into her eardrums. She caught something new. A soft, thumping beat somewhere close-by. It sounded like... music? It reminded her of what Vinyl Scratch would play in her home. Loud, blaring electronic melodies that would shake her whole body and rattle her lungs. As she inched closer to the sharp, 90 degree turn where it seemed to be emanating from, she started to catch some of the treble. It was talking. Lyrics. Sounded... entrancing. Catchy. The deep, husky voice projected itself over the looping beats, rhyming, sometimes saying words she didn't understand. Before long, she caught herself tapping her foot, bobbing her head with the tempo of the song. Another thought hit her: where there's music, there must be people listening to it! Yes! She could hear regular voices talking above the bassy noise, but couldn't make out exactly what they were saying. Lyra smiled and walked towards the bend some more...

She stopped herself, causing her to nearly lose the balance she had worked so hard to obtain. She crept up to the corner and flattened her back to the wall. She couldn't just go running up to the nearest human like a bumbling idiot! _"Hi, my name's Lyra Heartstrings! I used to be a magical unicorn pony from another world who got here via an ancient, possibly forbidden spell!"_ Nu-uh. She needed to think this through. She needed to find a way to approach them with tact and dignity. She...

She was scared. Heart-poundingly terrified. The constant tingling seemed to grow slightly more intense. What if they can tell she was not originally human? What if they don't accept her? What if she insults them unknowingly through a bad greeting or an unintentional gesture? Lyra didn't know what to do. She mentally slapped herself. _"Get it together! You've gotten this far, and there's no turning back! Take the first step!"_ She knew that, from this this point, there would be some trial-and-error. So what? That's how we all learn! She'd blunder through their customs, but she'll learn them, too. Before long, it would be as if she was born here! With this new perspective, she felt a little better, but not much. Her limbs were still paralyzed with anxiety.

This tingling. Celestia, this _tingling!_ She realized her hands were up, scratching both of her arms furiously. She forced herself to stop, but her face began to twitch with discomfort. It just wouldn't go away! Why won't it go away? Was it something in the air that was causing this? Did all humans feel it, but were just used to it? Dear Celestia, she hoped not. She'd go crazy from this constant sensation, this aggravating pins-and-needles horseapples! It felt itchy beneath her skin! She just wish there was a bunch of hands all over her body, scratching every place at the same time. So many writhing digits caressing her soft flesh all at once-

No! Dirty thoughts, begone! Lyra needed a clear head to go and make first contact with these people. First, she was dying to know what they looked like. The young woman tentatively tilted her head around the corner, gingerly peeking over the brick-and-mortar surface to catch a quick glimpse of whoever was out there, listening to that catchy music...

Her head whipped back into hiding. Her chest was thumping wildly, threatening to burst. She saw them. _She actually saw them!_ Well, not much of them, but she now knew there was more than one of them. Lyra caught some of their features, mostly their clothing. Quite a lot considering the nighttime darkness. They were dressed in mostly dark colors, with strange flairs of bright ones, like on a hat or shoes or an arm-band. And wow, they wore a _lot_ of clothing. Jackets, shirts, pants, pants _under_ their pants, belts, gloves, sunglasses... Why all the clothes? Maybe it was a status thing, how much clothing you had on. If that was the case, she was staggeringly underdressed. Only a simple dress and that was it. Lyra was beginning to feel inadequate.

_"Well, that can't be helped,"_ she thought. She thought about rearing around for another look, but she decided she was done hiding. She had to confront other humans, eventually. She _had_ to, so she might as well do it now. It probably wasn't too much different from meeting a pony. Oh, what will they say to her? What will they think of her? These thoughts and more filled her with both excitement and trepidation. She regulated her breathing and pushed the doubts from her mind, along with the cold and the _tingling_ on her skin. She bit her fears down and stuck her leg forward, past the sanctuary of the wall. One bare foot after another, she rigidly forced herself out into the open, out where she could be seen by all. She stopped, turned, opened her clenched eyes, and spoke.

"Umm... Hi."

Immediately, their idle conversation ceases and all heads snapped in her direction. Lyra tried not to tremble, but the tingling made it hard. It was still tormenting her, but, despite its overbearing presence, it was the last thing that was on her mind. Their faces! They were all shaped differently, all so unique! So much more detail and individuality than pony features! They were just subtle differences, like the shape of the jaw, the size of the nose, the way their mouth looked, and the depth of the brow, but even these made them seem miles apart! Their skin! They came in so many colors: pallid, caramel, bronze, chocolate... there was one who look who was almost the color of coal! They came in all shapes and sizes as well. Some stood tall and meaty, their bare arms glistening with sweat, muscles, and sometimes markings that seemed to be etched onto their skin. Others were gaunt and skinny, their eyes seemed to ferret this way and that. One of them was short and kinda pudgy, wearing a face that seemed to have a permanent sneer. There didn't seemed to be any females, but then again, she was just going off of what she looked like, with her soft jaw line and the round bumps on her chest. There was some motion among the group and the music got quieter as one of them manipulated a knob on the box it was coming from. They exchanged glances to each other and made vague gestures that Lyra didn't understand.

"Well, well... What do we have here?" Someone from the crowd announced in a strange, rolling accent. He made himself seen. Lyra couldn't help but cringe. All over the tan man's face were silver rings. They were on his face, his ears, his eyebrows, his nose. She knew what piercings looked like... but this? He was also wearing a dark-blue wooly cap over his head, which gave no indication of hair under it. He was wearing a black jacket made of some bizarre, tough, somewhat inflexible material. Under it was a loose grey shirt with an image of chains and skulls, followed by faded jeans and ending in boots. The man sauntered up peered down at her. He wasn't the tallest of the group, certainly, but he dwarfed the scrawny pony-turned-human by at least half a head. Lyra tried her best not to flinch from his toothy grin. A milky discoloration of the sink ran down one of his cheeks.

She cleared her throat and tried her best to speak calmly. "Hi... My name's Lyra... H-Heartstrings..."

He bent down and met her face, hands in his pockets. "You lost, _chica?_" He looked past her a moment and then returned his gaze.

Lyra swallowed hard. She noted the strange word he used to name her, but the tingling was still biting at her flesh, and that took precedence over most of her thoughts. "Kinda. Do you think you could help me...? Maybe... show me around? I'm... uh... new here."

The man snickered, as did the rest of the group behind him.

"Lemme be the first to welcome you to Gotham!" He spread arms. "Biggest shithole in the country!"

"S'ides Blüdhaven." Someone behind added.

"Shut it!" He hissed before turning back to Lyra. "And yes, we can show ya around. All the ups, the downs, and everything in between!" A few more chuckles came from the others.

She relaxed a bit. _"He seems friendly enough,"_ she thought. But still... something seemed off. Something about this whole scenario nagged her in the back of her mind. And those _piercings._ She couldn't take her eyes off of them. The man seemed to notice her expression.

"Whatchu lookin' at?"

"Um... I don't wanna... ya know... but don't those hurt?"

He was confused for an instant as he ran his fingers down his face. When he realized she was referring to the rings, he smiled.

"Oh, yes, _chica._ It hurts. It hurts all the time. But you know what?" He leaned closer, causing Lyra to recoil slightly. "I _love_ the pain. I just can't live without it."

She stared at him, unsure of how to respond to that. So focused she was on him, she didn't notice some of the others get up and walk past them, standing behind her. A siren tolled, closer than most of the ones she's heard before. She noticed that some of them flinched ever so slightly. The one in front of her did not budge. From what she could gather, the man seemed to be the leader of sorts. He carried an aura of authority about him in a nonchalant manner, like Spitfire of the Wonderbolts. Perhaps this group he supposedly lead was something like that. After a short minute, the man's eyes drifted up to her minty locks, raising his hand to touch it.

"That's some hair ya got..." Lyra stiffened. His hand smelled like smoke. His fingernails looked dirty and chewed on. She remained frozen. She could probably chalk this up to a _clear_ violation to her personal space, but maybe this was a normal thing for humans of this world. Maybe was probably just part of their meeting... er... ritual. She didn't know. She _couldn't_ know. The man twiddled the strands of her hair between his fingers, brow bent in perplexity, as if he hardly believed what he was seeing was her natural hair color. She noticed that their hair ranged from black, brown, red, and yellow. Green, purple, blue, pink... these colors weren't among them.

"Quit messin' with her, Miggy." The squat one with the puffy green vest said. He was about the same height as Lyra, maybe shorter, but a lot rounder. "Let's just get this over with."

The man, allegedly named "Miggy", let go of her hair, gritted his teeth, and whirled around. "Shut your fuckin' face, _cabrón!_ You can't jus' rush these kinda things!"

The way he acknowledged his friend rankled Lyra a bit, causing her to move back another half-step. She attributed it mostly to culture shock, but now he was bordering on rude. She kept her demeanor, though as she waited for them to do something. She hoped they would show her around, take her on a tour of sorts. She wasn't so sure if they had the same idea anymore.

The "cabrón" character raised his hands in a defeated gesture. "Jus' sayin', man, for all we know, _he_ could be watching us."

Immediately, as if driven by some supernatural force, all heads shot to the rooftops, scanning the concrete canopy in wide-eyed fear. Their eyes flicked back and forth, some turned in full circles. The music player clicked off completely, and that was left was the ambience of the city. Lyra joined in, gawking at whatever they were attempting to look for, with no avail. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Miggy slowly inhaled, exhaled, and turned back to Lyra with an unmistakable change in mannerism. _"What was it? What do they mean by "him"? What were they afraid of?"_ She wanted to voice these questions and more, but when she opened her mouth to expel the words, the man gave a wicked, raspy chuckle, beating back her courage to speak.

"He got a point, _chica,_ we're kinda pressed for time." He licked his teeth like a leering predator.

Suddenly he was closing in on her, his body pressing against hers, his hands reaching for the doughy mounds on her chest. Startled, she immediately backpedaled and yipped when she bumped into something. She jerked around, and the giant, coal-skinned man looked down at her, grinning with yellow teeth. He shoved her back in Miggy's direction as more of them closed around her. Alarm bells sounded in her mind as she struggled from their grip. This wasn't right... this _isn't right!_ Her ribcage throbbed loudly. Her breathing became erratic. What did she do wrong? Was it something she said? Was is something she did? Something she didn't do?

"W-wait!" She shouted as she tried to free her wrist from the iron grip of one of them. "I-I only wanted some help! P-please!"

"We gonna help you, alright." Bellowed the large one as he gripped her other arm. "We gonna help you right outta dat pretty dress!"

"N-no! Please! HEL- mmmppphhh!" The piercing covered man clamped his hand over her mouth. He stared into her quivering, terror-stricken eyes and growled.

"Don'tchu even THINK about squealin', see? You're mine, and _El murciélago_ ain't gonna stop me this time!"

Lyra could feel the tingling on her skin turn into a white-hot burning sensation that seeped down to her bone, causing her screams of panic to turn into screams of pain. Her eyes widened as the agony bled into her head. In a bout of desperation, she tore one of her hands free and lashed out blindly. To her, it felt like a blur, but her fingers felt a tug as they sailed through the air in a wide arc. The man yelped. The hand suddenly came free and she was shrieking loudly, unrepressed. Miggy saw the red-stained silver ring hit the asphalt. He slowly brought his hand to the place on his lip that gushed red with blood.

"_Hijo de puta!_" He turned to the wailing girl, furious. "You BITCH!"

There was a snap and, in an instant, a gleaming knife was in his hand. He pressed it against her throat covering her mouth once more. Lyra's eyes were screwed shut, as if shutting out one of her senses would dim some of the pain. It didn't.

"Big, mistake, _chica._" He snarled, blade pressing on the flesh of her neck. Some of his scarlet life-fluid dripped from his chin and stained her dress. "We were gonna go easy on ya, but now there ain't gonna be much left of ya when we're done. Just a little scrap of cloth and food for the _dogs._"

She couldn't hear him. She was too busy enduring the agonizing fire that was coursing through her body. It started to ring in her ears. She felt her bones groaning, as if pressure was building up within them. Her muscles were experiencing the same thing. They began to tremble and convulse. Before long, Lyra was thrashing around, the coal-colored man struggling to hold her in place. The sweat that was pouring from her skin was loosening his grip.

"Yo, careful with that thing! You might stab this crazy bitch!"

Miggy didn't respond, merely focused on keeping his paw over her mouth and his blade to her neck. The others began groping for her dress, laughing, trying to rip it off like a candy wrapper.

"Hold still... or I'm screwin'... your corpse!" He said through gritted teeth. His own perspiration was soaking his cap as he tried to follow her movements while she tossed herself around. Lyra screamed louder and louder, past what she thought possible, coating the man's grimy palm with her spittle. Suddenly, he slipped, and the tip of the knife caught the flesh of her neck.

***SNAP***

A light clink hit the ground as Miggy staggered backwards, staring at the broken blade in his hand. His covered hand was no longer over her mouth, releasing the banshee shrieks, a din that could be heard for miles. The gangster's eyes darted from his hand to the girl, face crossed with wordless stupefaction.

Lyra herself did not even realize she was screaming anymore. Her senses were overloaded by the utter torment she was being subjected too. Every bone in her body felt like snapping, every muscle felt as if it was going to explode. The strain in her body was building higher and higher, threatening to tear her whole body asunder.

Then, something gave away.

The giant who restrained her cried out as an immeasurable force lifted him from his feet and sent him sprawling into his companions. One of the men clinging to her dress was suddenly gripped by agonizing vise, one which instantly crushed his bones to gravel. He screamed as he was pitched into a collection of trash cans. The rest of them had the sense to back off as quickly as they could. She dropped to her knees, clutching her head in her white-knuckled, slender hands, trying to block out the deafening peal that was splitting her eardrums. Her trembling body began to surge outward. Her limbs lengthened, her muscles swelled. Tears streamed from her eyelids, unfettered. Lyra's skin had been subjected to so much stimulation that it began to numb, but she could still feel herself pressing up against the rough cloth of her sundress. It began to audibly rip at the seams, revealing her growing flesh through the drum-tight cloth. All the while, the gangsters watched, terrified.

"Jesus Christ, she's a meta!" Miggy shouted, voicing all their thoughts. He whirled his puffy-vested companion. "Dans! Shoot her! SHOOT HER!"

The other man's sneer had finally disappeared, replaced with petrified shock as the thing-a mere few feet away from him-that was once a little girl no taller than him, slammed her fists into the ground, breaking the asphalt like a brittle layer of ice, all while screaming bloody murder. Dans started to inch away, turning, getting ready make a break for it. The Miggy roared at him once more.

"Your piece, man! Ice her before she kills us all!" That gave the panic form for all of them in their minds. While the rest of the crew twisted around and made a break for it, Dans slipped his trembling hand into his vest, fumbling for his gun. He couldn't seem to wrap his sausage fingers around the snub-nose revolver fast enough before the gang leader stomped over, grabbed him, and wrested the gun from his hand.

"_El amor de Dios!_ Gimme that, ya brainless fuck!" He shoved him to the ground and aimed at Lyra.

Six times he yanked the trigger. Six times the hammer was pulled back to strike the firing pin. Six times his arm bucked with the recoil as he gripped the faux-wood handle with a sweaty, white-knuckled vise. Six loud thundercracks echoed across the city; echoed inside of Lyra's eardrums. They felt magnified, as if her ears were being filled with nothing but more pain. She felt six sharp pinpricks collide with the force of a blacksmith's clanging hammer, lifting her from her knees, driving her backwards. The slugs rippled across her skin, intensifying the burning sensation to searing molten metal. Her eyes were wrenched open. A maddening vista of light invaded her corneas. Bright, flashing, relentless, she tried to close them again, but her mind couldn't seem to find the muscles required to do so. As if the bullets knocked loose another restraint, her body pulsed and expanded again. A loud rent signaled the end of her yellow sundress, which fluttered to the cold, wet ground in useless tatters. Her screaming had faded out to a dry moan, having lost the cognition to do anything with her throat than to force air through it.

Her mind was a stream of fractured consciousness, each thought that flew through her head made less sense than the last. _"What's happening to me? Was it the spell? Was it something I ate? Breakfast? Bad breakfast? I knew that stallion who sold me those blueberries was a shady dealer. He tainted them. Poisoned them! Tried to do away with crazy, human-obsessed Lyra! Thought he was doing the world a service!"_ She felt her blood starting to come to a rolling boil. Through the psychotic, visceral haze that sped across her vision, she caught the trembling form of that ring-faced man, now looking so small from where she was, holding a clicking metal thing that had caused her noise and pain banging against her burning body and throbbing skull. _"No... It was him! Him and his evil rings and his evil smile and his evil knife and his evil, grabby hands! He cursed me! Hexed me! Afflicted me with his magic face-rings and his spell-weaving words!"_ The realization that her foe was place before her, awaiting destruction, caused her bones to lengthen and her muscles to bulge a bit more. She bared her teeth, ground her bare feet into the black asphalt, and began to charge.

"Shitshitshitshitshit!" Miggy thrust his hand into every pocket on his person in search of bullets. Bullets which he was _sure_ he had, unless he gave them all to Dans when he trusted him with his gun so he wouldn't get jailed by the pigs if they decided to search him. Barring that, he looked for anything he could use to increase his chances of survival against that freak of nature. His frantic pocket diving was abruptly halted when he felt the ground quake with each stomp Lyra made. By the time he looked up, she was already upon him. He had no time to shout before he was heaved into the air by a glancing blow, and even that sent him faceplanting into a second-floor window and sliding into a heap of trash and cardboard boxes with most of his ribs cracked or broken. His gun fragmented against the wall, spilling the smoking casings from the dislodged cylinder.

Lyra kept running forward, propelled by her own substantial momentum. She felt as if she was only controlling half of her body, the other half moving to its own accord. Eye screwed shut, heedless of whatever solid object placed itself before her, she ran past the cowering silhouette of Dans, past the broken body of Miggy. She crunched the music box under her foot, causing it to spark, sputter, and die. She grazed the edge of a dumpster, overturning it, distorting the rusted metal and sending its foul contents scattering across the alleyway. She felt herself flatten against what may have been a brick wall, but it gave away almost instantly. She thought she heard a high-pitched scream from her left, but couldn't discern it for sure through the constant white noise in her ears. She felt another surface crumble before her.

Suddenly, she was in a world of honks and screeches and shouts. She could feel the frigid wind from the high speed objects that roared by her. Lyra stumbled forward, driven partly by reflex of dodging these zooming hunks of noisy metal. Their blazing beams of light could be felt past her eyelids. She brought her hands to her face, sticky with tears, trying to block it out. Block it all out. She sensed the ground rumble beneath her, a prelude to a lower-pitched honk that got louder and louder. She felt the air shift and the light shaft through her fingers as something tremendous rolled towards her. Her stomach came in contact with cold, heavy metal that crumpled against her dermal layer like tinfoil. She was thrown to the ground amidst the bedlam of screeches and screams, breaking glass and groaning steel. She began convulsing before she even hit the road's surface, her body experiencing another surge of agonizing growth. Thankfully, the impact returned some of her cognisance. She looked up at the street full of swerving metal carts that seemed to be drawn by nothing. She glimpsed inside and saw humans, all wide-eyed and panic-stricken. All staring at her. _"What's happening?! When will it stop?!"_

She needed to leave. She needed to get out of here. Far away from all the noise and lights, all the pain and metal and men with rings and sneering faces. Lyra scrambled to her feet, ignoring the burning of her skin, the pressure in her bones, the strain in her muscles, the noise in her ears, and the lights in her eyes. She shut them all out and ran. All she wanted was to meet the inhabitants of this wonderful new world. How did this all go sour? How did it ever come to this? Droplets fell from her eyes, leaving an invisible trail along the already damp roads and sidewalks of Gotham. She paid no heed to the other humans, who fled at the mere sight of her, nor to these monstrous, foul-smelling wheeled vehicles. Her feet just carried on while her mind wandered to her previous life, her life in Ponyville. She thought of her friends, her roommate Bon-Bon. She imagined their smiling faces and their warm greetings. They supported her, cared for her, considered her to be a true companion.

She traded that life for this?

Sirens sounded over the pandemonium of the night. Red and blue lights dashed through the streets of twisted metal and veered after the rampaging giantess.

Miles away, across the vehement city of broken dreams, a haggard, yet finely dressed man sighed as he arrived at his manor in his luxurious automobile. He maneuvered his bulky torso from the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. He loosened his tie as he walked up to the front door, where a thin, grey-haired man held the door waited, holding the oaken door open. The weary one nodded in appreciation, the two entered the manor, and the door creaked and latched shut.

"Welcome home, Master Bruce."

"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce popped his neck. "And what a day. I thought that host at the charity auction would never stop talking."

"Yes, after all that pain and suffering, I would hardly be surprised to see your unfathomable constitution nearly spent." Alfred returned in his usual sardonic manner, drawing a small smile from his longtime employer. "I trust you ate this evening?"

"Hors d'oeuvres galore." He handed his coat to his butler, who took it and hung it over his arm.

"I hope that will be enough, Sir, for it seems your night has only just begun. I've been listening to the police's radio chatter, and it appears an interesting development has been taking place in the city. One of rather... _tremendous_ proportion."

"Oh, this ought to be good..." Bruce Wayne commented aloud as he made his way to the secret entrance behind the grandfather clock.


	2. Big Problems

First, there was darkness. The sun did not shine here. The darkness took a moaning breath, its vast cavity echoed throughout. It was cold here. Damp. Harsh, sharp rock jutted from the ground, pairing themselves with more juts from the ceiling. The grey, hard earth that could be found here was chilly and lifeless. Occasionally, a pair of red eyes would flash in the dimness from the craggy canopy. There were many of them. Many unseen.

A spear of light shot into the cave, accompanied by a resonant clank and a grinding squeak. It riled its inhabitants. The creatures hissed and spat at this bright intrusion, damning it for all it stood for, hating it for all that it brought. There was another clank, this time bearing an electric fizzle. Anger turned to fear as the darkness was banished. Light filled the cavernous deep, and the hundreds upon hundreds of beasts took to their leathery wings and fled to a darker part of the cave. Those flapping wings repleted the moaning silence with such a deafening cacophony of shrieks and flutters. Nothing could be heard beyond the shattering uproar of terror, yet it only lasted for several seconds. After it had died down, a small, pithy set of footsteps echoed across the vast room, now filled with objects that were not at all cave-like. An array of monitors hooked up to a large supercomputer, a sleek, black vehicle sat stationary on a rotating platform, and a giant penny stood protrusive and glaringly voluminous, to only name a few.

The wide-shouldered figure made his way down the long stone staircase wordlessly. When he found the bottom, he made his way across the flat surface at a smooth, controlled pace, as if every movement he made was leashed with strict discipline. A stark contrast to the clumsy, blundering party-boy he was mere hours ago. He could still taste the sweet, bubbly ginger ale on his tongue from when he was busy convincing everybody it was champagne. Sometimes he thought he overplayed his guise; acting he was somewhere between tipsy and completely plastered almost all of the time. It made him look like an witless alcoholic. He was the CEO of a corporate giant as well as a fervent philanthropist. This suit-wearing alias may not have the best judgement or refine, but he still had somewhat of an image to maintain. Perhaps he needed to tone down the "wild and loose" side of him. The tabloids were getting more creative each and every day.

As he paced across the open space, a pneumatic hiss wheezed from the floor. A section of the ground, circular and about four or five feet across, gradually rose into the air. A glass surface gleamed in the floodlights, revealing the contents within. A black cowl with pointed ears, two holes for eyes, and a section open for the mouth, chin, and nostrils. A shadowy cape, long and reaching down to the boots with pointed ends that emulated the wings of a creature of the night. An ocher belt lined with weighty pouches and compartments. A kevlar-reinforced chestpiece emblazoned with a black bat that stretch across the pectorals, bold and menacing. The man stopped in front of the container as the transparent quarter-cylinders automatically whined and parted, detecting his presence through hidden motion detectors and biometric scans. He stood silent as he gazed into the empty eye-holes of that mask, into his very soul, and they seemed to stare back.

The man's name was Bruce Wayne, and it has be said before that he could've been better off with a less suicidal "hobby".

When Alfred first told him the details of the police dispatch, the English butler was met with disbelief.

_"Impossible. Giganta is being held at Iron Heights. If she had escaped, I would have known about it within seconds." Bruce stated as he open the hidden entrance door; an inconspicuous grandfather clock. "Everyone would have known about it. She's not renown for her subtlety."_

_"Perhaps, if you would give me the opportunity to make such an observation, our..._ massive _mademoiselle is not Giganta, but rather another individual of similar ability."_

_"You said the police chatter described her as 'visibly growing in size'. The only other documented meta with that power is Albert Rothstein, and to say he's even remotely feminine is probably a crime against humanity."_

_Alfred smiled. "It seems you're in a merry mood this night, Master Bruce, if you're keen on cracking jokes."_

_"That wasn't a joke." He swung the clock-door open. "I'd probably hunt them down myself."_

_The butler's smile faded. "Well, we may ponder her identity well into the morning, but the issue still stands. There's a large woman making a mess of Gotham and, I dare say, the local police are pitifully ill-equipped to combat such a problem."_

_"I'll handle it before I go after Maxie." He clipped and squeezed his broad frame through the narrow entrance. Alfred called after him._

_"Before you don your cape and rush off into certain death again, might you consider seeking help from your superhuman allies? Superman, perhaps?"_

_Bruce turned and shot him a cold stare. "I can handle it."_

_Silence reigned for a long moment before the billionaire playboy's gaze faltered and fell to the ground. The iciness melted as he looked back into his surrogate father's eyes._

_"How's Tim?"_

_"He's doing quite well. I checked on him about an hour and a half ago." He stated, not changing his unflappable demeanor in the least. "You may check on him yourself before you head out, maybe consider giving him a proper burial this time."_

_Wayne scowled. "For the last time, the cave is fine. If I had him resting up here, people would be questioning his injuries."_

_"Yes, Heaven forbid, should a curious soul come wandering in and scrutinizing every secluded bedroom in this dusty old estate."_

_"We're done here." He whirled around and tramped down the staircase. "I'm suiting up. Good night."_

_Alfred bowed. "Very well, Master Bruce."_

He still considered his butler's advice, bringing Tim up from this frigid cave, but he knew very well the concealment of both of their identities was top priority. The luxury of comfort and convenience was not a liability he could afford. The hospital bed, visible from where he was pulling on his boots, was adequate enough to meet his medical needs. Bruce could see his exuberant young sidekick's splint and tourniquet from here, as well as the frightening amount of welts and bruises on his face. His stillness may have alarmed a regular man, but Wayne's perception had been honed beyond a regular man's capability. He could see the subtle rise-and-fall of this chest. He was merely resting, and the boy needed all the rest he could get.

It was a stupid mistake. An inane blunder. He told him to wait, to not be hasty, yet Tim charged right into that building without getting a good look at the shadows and the dozen bat, tire-iron, and lead-pipe wielding men hiding in them. It was just supposed to be another hit-and-run mission, to break up another one of Maxie Zeus's drug trafficking checkpoints. It was a trap. That toga-wearing freak finally got smart. Batman knew there was something amiss when he was scoping out the hand-off. The hired muscle seemed second-rate and lazy. The thugs directing the crates that were being loaded into the truck were too loud, as if they wanted to be found by him. Yet, the narcotics in those containers were very real, as were the pain, misery, and death they would inevitably cause if they got out onto the streets. Batman tracked them to this crucial bottleneck in their drug flow, and he was going to make sure that it would be the end of the line for these needle-peddling scumbags.

He glanced at his faithful prodigy and gave the signal. In tandem, they swooped in and took out the key, gun-wielding cronies. The rest was clockwork. The brainless goons closed in, throwing sloppy jabs and painfully slow hooks and haymakers. The application of blunt-force trauma made them all think twice about choosing their line of work. The boy handled them well, too, albeit with much more wise-cracking banter. By the time the mess outside was taken care of, the "brains" of the operation had fled into a nearby warehouse. Robin was the first to see him enter the condemned building and gave the chase. The first sign that something went wrong was the crack of a shattered kneecap resonating in Batman's ear, followed by a bloodcurdling scream. He immediately began plowing through the rest of the thugs, heedless, towards the building. By the time he got there and incapacitated almost all of the attackers, some worthless low-life was spitting obscenities while wailing on the boy's face with a crowbar.

_Crowbar..._

_"A little hard to make with the yuks when you're worm-food, eh Bats? Haaahahahahaha!"_

...It took him every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself from snapping his neck. He settled for a dislocated elbow to render his crowbar arm useless, a broken jaw to make swearing a great deal more difficult, and a swift punch to the gut followed by a leg-breaking stomp, just because he felt he didn't cause him enough physical pain. He cradled his sidekick in his arms and rushed him to the Batcave, letting the wailing sirens converge onto the scene and take care of things from there.

He blamed himself for it. It was his fault. He didn't see all the angles, didn't pay attention to the obvious signs flashing at him like a neon light. In his arrogance, he rushed in to deny his enemy his filthy method of corralling money from the suffering of Gotham's impressionable youth. It cost him dearly.

Batman clicked his utility belt around his waist and pulled on his signature cowl. He went over to his armory and exchanged some extraneous tools for sleeping gas and tranq-darts, complete with the palm-sized, but powerful delivery method. He took one last look at the hospital bed. _"__No more,"_ he silently promised himself. _"After I take care of this rampant meta, I'm coming for **you**, Maxie, and I'll make sure you're going away for a long, long time."_

Again, arrogance. A mere mortal "taking care" of a meta? Batman mentally chided himself. He's dealt with superhumans before, against impossible odds. He's defeated the likes of Clayface and gone toe-to-toe with Solomon Grundy. He's faced impossible odds before and emerged victorious... but not every time. This never-ending battle against those who would use their abilities for evil served as a constant reminder of just how frail he was. He needed to prepare himself for what could possibly be the fight of his life, perhaps even the last. Every time he put on the cape and cowl, every time he set out to clean up this dying city's streets of crooks, gangsters, and parasites, he knew that that night may very well be his last. Very few people get to choose how they die, even fewer know when. He could perish at the knife of the Joker or the fists of Bane. He could be crushed underneath some excessively garash pseudo-deathtrap, like a giant typewriter or piano. He could even be snuffed out by some lucky punk with a gun. Dying at the hands of this to-be-named meta was a _very_ likely possibility. He needed to be careful. For justice's sake For Gotham's sake. For Tim's sake. For his parents' sake.

Batman finished his preparations, having met all the criteria for a night of crime-fighting. With a whoosh of his cape, he turned towards the Batmobile. There was a roar of an engine, the screech of burning rubber as the custom-made supercar took off. The cave rebounded the clamorous noises for a short moment, then, once again, all was silent.

* * *

_"I'm getting too old for this..."_

That same cliché ran through the mind of Commissioner James Gordon for what seemed like the thousandth time. It wasn't necessarily true, though. Many still considered him to be in his prime for this line of work, even though he was was one of the most senior members of the force. He agreed with them most of the time, too. After all, he had to give himself some credit every now-and-then. It was probably because of this whole scene that stood before him. Sirens wailed into his skull; the fast-paced _thwok thwok thwok_ of a police helicopter added to the bedlam as it circled overhead. Flashing reds and blues shone through his thick, square glasses. A bleak wind ruffled his grey hair and his overcoat, reeking of exhaust and saltwater. He felt as if this scene has defined his entire life so far. Truth be told, it got really old, _really_ fast. The only difference being that, instead of lining in front of an apartment building full of gang-members, or a lone, mentally-disturbed man with a gun to his wife's head, Gotham's finest had followed a trail of destruction to where they've cornered a giant, screaming, naked girl in a dockside warehouse.

Or maybe it was the nervous fledgling he was standing next to, kneeling down with a quivering pistol in both hands, aiming directly at the massive tear in the warehouse's metal entrance that was making him feel so decrepit. He could see the sweat beading on his brow, the wide-eyes look of fear. Gordon chuckled quietly to himself. _"Green as grass."_ The commissioner put a fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder, eliciting a small start. At least he was sensible to maintain trigger discipline, otherwise he would have jerked off a shot. He turned and met the older man's eyes.

"You look nervous, son."

The officer swallowed hard and refocus back at the warehouse. "We... we were never trained for this, Sir. A-a meta. There's a meta in there, S-sir."

He wasn't wrong. James has had limited contact with superpowered criminals in his day. And, with the exception of Clayface and a few other choice individuals, Gotham was fairly devoid of these "gifted" persons. No, they've never been trained to handle metas. He wasn't sure if such training existed.

Gordon turned his grim gazed to the surrounded building. "You're doing fine. What's your name?"

"Ch-Charlie. Charile Reno."

"How long have you been on the force, Charile?"

"This is only my second month." He stated, then fumblingly added: "...Sir."

_"Looked as much. Poor guy."_ He thought to himself and then spoke aloud. "Just stay alert and do what you're supposed to do." He added as an afterthought. "And check your chamber and safety."

There was a long pause. Then, a metallic sliding sound and a click.

"Shouldn't we..." He began. "Are we going to go in, Sir?"

"We're not risking the lives of good men by blindly rushing in." He replied immediately. He scanned the nearby rooftops. _"He sure is taking his time."_

"So... what do we do?"

"We're waiting for backup, son."

Charlie furrowed his brow. "More officers? The SWAT team? The Army?"

As if on cue, a faint decompression of air became known, followed by a whining rattle and a clank as a cable stretched from the top of a nearby building, over the police line, and embedded itself into the warehouse wall. A dark silhouette glided across the sky, drawing the attention of some officers. The figure landed with a roll and smoothly stood up, cape dragging along the ground, and glanced back at the police line for a short moment, looking directly at the commissioner. Then, the cowled man turned and silently stepped through the jagged hole leading inside.

Officer Reno knelt with his mouth agape while Gordon smiled.

"None of the above."

* * *

The interior was dark, save the glowing crescent moonlight pouring through the dirty windows and the large hole behind him. That was expected. Warehouses weren't usually well-lit. It didn't matter. He preferred the dark. The dark gave him strength. The dark allowed him to defeat those who shared its embrace, as well as those who pretended to walk in the light. The dark gave birth to fear, his weapon against those who would prey on the fear of the innocent.

His boots moved across the floor, making almost no sound. He passed by tall stacks of pine crates, scanning the warehouse with his narrowed eyes. A trail was evident. From the gash in the door, a path of destruction led right in, as obvious as footprints in snow. Or, in this case, as indicated by the foot-shaped divots before him, prints in solid concrete. There were crumpled spots on the edges of the crates where it looked like a huge hand had crushed and splintered them effortlessly. Batman shuffled by a messy pile of toppled containers where the nondescript contents have been strewn about. As he moved forward through the narrow aisle, the destruction became less overwhelming. The stark footprints petered out, but his trained eyes could still make out impressions where a massive weight had been applied. And, up until this point, the spacious warehouse had seemed eerily silent. Now, he could hear a hint of a sound over the distant clamor of the city and the police outside.

It was several sharp intakes of breath, accompanied by sniffles and low moans.

Was she crying?

Cautiously, Batman moved closer, crouching to reduce his visibility. He could see slight movement ahead, in the dark. Hiding behind a refrigerator-sized box, he peered around and caught sight of his target.

She was huddled with her back to a steel support beam, face buried in her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. As the radio said, she was very large and [i]very[/i] nude. To put her size into perspective, Batman estimated that her head came up to his chest in her current fetal position. But what the police failed to mention was her peculiar hair color. Mint green with a stripe of white. A very obtrusive detail not to be noted for the sake of identification, but was most likely overshadowed by her more... _bounteous_ and_ visible_ qualities. Most cops were men, after all. Her identity, or rather, her non-identity was now confirmed. Giganta would never color her hair like that. She must have been a new metahuman. The caped crusader could now make out her voice through her sobbing.

"I- I'm s-sorry... *sniff* I- I- Bon-Bon... I'm s-so sorry... I should h-have n-n-never..."

Batman calculated his approach. She wasn't on guard. She wasn't paying attention to her surroundings in her howling self-deprecations. This meta also didn't seem like she voluntarily caused all that destruction. It was evident she was under turbulent emotional stress. It didn't matter, her intentions. She was still a menace, but her apparent disposition meant that he could try and calm her, work this out without having to resort to force. He had already witnessed the effects of her gratuitous strength on the city streets. Crumpled steel and massive traffic mayhem were in abundance as he raced here in the Batmobile. He even saw a body-shaped impression on the grill of a loaded semi on a sixty mile-an-hour road. He would rather not contend with such raw power.

The Dark Knight gathered his wits and left his hiding spot noiselessly. He deliberately moved towards the girl, controlling his composure and looking as nonthreatening as possible while still keeping his hand close to the pouch containing the dart-gun should things go awry. The tranquilizer needles were tipped with diamond, but with what he's witnessed so far, he wasn't sure even _that_ could pierce her dermal layer. Batman halted about five feet from the sorrow-wracked lady. She still hasn't noticed him yet. He cleared his throat.

"Miss."

Her head reared upwards and caught a glimpse of the costumed man with her red, puffy eyes. They widened considerably. She clumsily brought herself to her feet and backpedaled away, each footfall making a small earthquake. Her back slammed against a concrete wall, ejecting a small amount of rubble, but holding true. The window above spiderwebbed with several cracks, though.

"P-please... No! I'm s-sorry! No more!"

"It alright." He returned calmly. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help"

He now had a good view of her tear-streaked face. It was smooth and youthful with a small nose and a soft chin. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, maybe eighteen. Her eyes, irritated and spent from all the crying as they were, seemed to glow with amber. Her true height also became clear. She was nearly twice as tall as him, and her muscles were as well-defined as Diana's, if not more. Aside from what was on her head, she was hairless. He grimaced. That was a tidbit of knowledge he would rather have not bothered to look for. Though, while on that subject, she had yet to make any attempts to conceal her body, involuntarily or otherwise, which gave him the impression that she didn't care for clothes in the first place. Batman tried to advanced, but she pressed herself further into the wall.

"W-who are you?"

Now _that_ was a line he hadn't heard in a long while. Over his many years of pursuing his personal crusade of crime-fighting, he has developed into a symbol known throughout the world. Nearly every news station across the vast blue planet had a weekly bulletin detailing his major exploits for all the couch potatoes sitting at home with nothing better to do. His endeavors with the Justice League has even made him known on _other_ worlds as well. It was very hard to find a person who's never heard of him before, which added to the mystery of her origin. Isolated from the media and a chronic streaker. He was beginning to consider the possibility of her being a human-like extraterrestrial, maybe even another Kryptonian. He hoped that wasn't that case. Earth was host to more than enough already.

"I'm Batman." He stated. The giantess's fearful expression shifted somewhat towards incredulous disbelief. He went on regardless. "I know you're having a rough time right now, but I can help you. If you'll come with me, I can get you someplace safe before you cause any more trouble."

She shook her head wildly. Batman saw that her eyes were dilating and contracting erratically. Her eyelids fluttered from time to time, especially when he spoke, as if it hurt. Her senses were in overdrive, and, as a result, she was probably suffering maddening delusions. Was she under the effect of some drug? Psychic influence? His hand drifted to the dart-gun compartment.

"N-no!" She sputtered, plunging back into panic. "I-I don't want... I didn't mean to... I never wanted to hurt a-anypon- anybody! I just... I... Ahh... Ahhhh! **AHHHHHHHHHH!**"

She brought herself to her knees, clutching her head between her hands, all while screaming uncontrollably. To the vigilante's shock, he could see her body swell even more. He could hear the sickening sound of her bones expanding, her muscles nearly ripping themselves apart. Batman now drew the conclusion that her rampage was attributed to her severe growing pains and the unimaginable mental feedback they've been causing. The reason she was an undocumented meta was because she, possibly, only acquired her powers shortly before. He was no medical expert like his father was, nor was he a brilliant scientist of S.T.A.R. Labs. He could only stare in horror as she shrieked in agony. She needed help, and fast. Batman drew the metallic box-shaped object from his pouch. At the press of a button, it whirred, clicked, and morphed into a compact dart-gun, a syringe already loaded in the chamber.

Before he could bring it to bear, something unexpected happened. In the midst of her thrashing torment, a bump appeared on her head, stretching the skin and gradually getting larger. It looked like a pointy tumor. The abscess turned an angry, inflamed red, as the giantess clawed at her skull, screaming louder than ever before. Then, it gave way in a splash of watery blood. Spiraled and about four inches in length, It was a mint-colored... horn?

Before the Dark Knight could react, his entire body was forced backwards along with several nearby crates. The unnamed woman's eyes and horn radiated bright with amber, the same color of her irises, but tainted with an ethereal white. The objects affected were laced with the same hue of scintillating aura. Batman felt his back forcibly connect with the far wall. Through his training, he had learned to mitigate such damage. He instinctually kept the back of his head from taking most of the blow, but the pain and the strength it sapped was still present. He readjusted his vision and saw the writhing giantess, now encased in a swirling vortex of fragmented containers and arcane plasma.

_"Great."_ He thought with contempt. _"Magic. Just what I needed."_ Though his loathing for the supernatural was not as great as Superman's, this enigmous, powerful energy was just as annoying as the abilities contrived from his superhuman adversaries, quite possibly even more so. The worst part was he didn't think to bring his Nth metal gadgets upon departing the Batcave.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, Batman sprung into action, dodging flying debris and finding sturdy cover. A crate shattered against the support column he hid behind, causing him to wince. This was getting out of hand. He could hear the building groan amidst the telekinetic turbulence. The solid steel girders near her were beginning to twist and warp. The ceiling precipitated dun-colored pebbles and cracked menacingly.

"Get yourself under control!" He shouted over the din. "You'll bring the whole roof down on both of us!"

She did seemed to not notice his voice at all, too busy convulsing in unbearable torment. The vigilante swore as another high-speed object nearly took off his head. That line never worked. Why did he even bother?

From his belt, he withdrew a roundish disk and depressed a switch at its center. It beeped and glowed red. Batman subsequently chucked it in her direction. No use. The sleeping gas emitter was swept up in the magical wind and tossed to another part of the warehouse. _"Typical..."_ He scanned the vicinity for his dart-gun, lost when he was tossed right into a wall without warning. The gleam of the device was plain in the strobing amber light, lying behind an adjacent support beam. The only thing that separated it from him was several yards of floor space and a tornado of certain death. It was his only chance at subduing her, provided it hadn't been damaged in the process of the forceful separation from his hand. A trivial detail. From barely dodging bullets to all the narrow saves with his grapple-gun, he's made a living off of these slim odds. Literally.

The time to act was now. Batman dived from cover, feeling a whoosh scant hair-breadths from his ear. With a roll, he found his footing and sprinted towards his quarry, a mere five or so bounds away. But, as it so happened, his luck ran out at that moment. A crate rammed itself headlong into his side. A bark of pain flew from his lips. He felt as if he was hit with a sack of bricks. On noticing the contents of the box that hit him, he saw that it _was_, in fact, masonic building material. He clutched his torso, dragging himself on with his free hand and feet. More containers exploded around him, ejecting their contents like shrapnel. He ignored the discomfort as much as he could and limped on.

Nearly collapsing at his destination, he took the device into his hand. Aside from a few unfortunate scuffs on a brand-new piece of equipment, the dart-gun was still perfectly functional. WayneTech had designed it robustly, just the way he needed it to be. The hurricane of supernatural energy was reaching dangerous levels now, as indicated by the soon-to-be-failing integrity of the roof. The girl was faring no better than before.

**"HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!"** She shrieked at the top of her lungs, eyes and horn blazing brightly. **"FOR THE LOVE OF CELESTIA MAKE IT STOOOOOPPP!"**

The first needle hit her in the area around her right shoulder. Her skin, thankfully, wasn't thick enough to withstand the diamond point. She reeled slightly, but she was still going strong. Batman swore and loaded another syringe. The second one hit her closer to his target, right beneath her collarbone. She stumbled from that one, her constant screams subsided to a wail. The magical maelstrom also died down some, but not enough. The roof was still susceptible to a cave-in. He pulled the trigger once more. The third and final dart hit her right in the sweet spot: the soft flesh of her neck. Her eyes stopped glowing along with her horn, which seemed to give off a trailing mist like gunsmoke. The levitated objects all dropped to the ground with several crashes. She herself swayed on her bare feet, her eyes rolled into her head, and, like a great, felled tree, toppled face-first onto the floor and drifted into a merciful slumber.

Batman breathed heavily for several moments in deafening silence, slowing down his mind. His disciplined heart rate never passed 90 bpm, but he could feel it pushing. With his head cleared from the haze of combat, the pain in his side set in as well. He winced when he applied pressure to the spot. Internal injuries were likely. What a shame, for they wouldn't be treated until morning. He would have to adapt and ignore the discomfort. Precariously rising to his feet, Batman hobbled over to the unconscious body splayed out on the floor. He knelt down and removed the darts, their sedatives spent. It took a bit of a tug. Her skin seemed to have firmed up since he fired them. Intriguing. With the needles properly disposed of in his utility belt, he went over to her side and prepared to flip her over. He grasped her arm with both hands and heaved, awakening the red monsters in his side, baying angrily. He paid no attention and grunted, hauling the monumental, limp weight over her shoulder and onto her back. She landed with a loud thud while the caped crusader panted. _"Oh, if only Dick could see me now,"_ He wordlessly lamented. _"He'd probably say something like, 'Worst date ever.'"_

He needed to get her out of here. Somewhere she could get real help. He couldn't hand her over to the police. They wouldn't know what to do with her. A jail cell would hardly be fitting or effective in her case. Gotham General was even less of an option. They weren't equipped for metahumans. Not in the very least. He needed to get her to S.T.A.R. Labs, stat, but there was no time. He put so much planning into this one night, ratting out countless leads and following Maxie's movements. He would never get another window of opportunity like this. He didn't like the option he was left with, but there was no other choice.

Batman pressed his finger to his ear-more specifically, a communication device hidden in his cowl-and spoke.

"Computer, send the jet to my position. Configuration 5-C."

His earpiece beeped in acknowledgement. It would take a few minutes for the Batwing to get to him, so in the meantime, he decided to learn more about his hefty friend here. Kneeling back down, he could hear her rumbling snore vibrate through his feet. Taking care to mind her dignity and paying no attention to anything below her neck, he took a closer look at the aberrant appendage sprouting from her forehead. There was some thin, membranous flesh still hanging in frays around the base. He carefully peeled it off, revealing that the border between her head and the horn was faultless. Taking extra heed, he touched it with his index finger. He winced and instantly pulled back. It felt like a small discharge of static electricity, but it left a lingering sensation creeping under his skin. The girl groaned in her sleep.

Where did she come from? How did she get here? How did all this happened? And, above all, who was she? These questions ran through the mind of the world's greatest detective as he lifted his costume's upper piece and tended to his injury as best he could. These were also mysteries that wouldn't be solved tonight. He had work to do.

* * *

Commissioner Gordon was getting worried, and that was saying something. He clenched and unclenched his hands, nestled in his overcoat pockets. He put a lot of faith in that man. The press, the media, and all the opinionated hoity-toities on the talk shows beleaguered him endlessly about him condoning the actions of a vigilante. He didn't care. In this city filled with crooked cops and agenda-toting politicians, he found someone he could truly rely on. And, despite how much of a "menace" they made him out to be, he got the job done. Gordon didn't mind if justice didn't come from the bureaucratic nightmare that was Gotham PD, he didn't care if it came from a possibly mentally-disturbed man in a cape and mask (having known him on almost a personal level, nothing could be further from the truth). As long as proper justice was served, one way or another, he was content.

But his assurance in Batman's abilities faltered when the screaming started. Though he wasn't one of the officers to catch sight of her as she was stampeding through the city, as he was roused from his office instead, he drew the conclusion that it must've been _her. _And the slight lapse was nothing compared to the dread he felt from what came next. Yellow-white light, somehow sickeningly unnatural, flooded out every window of the building like powerful spotlights. The police, as well as the nearby bystanders and news reporters behind the line, all muttered in both awe and fear at the anomalous display.

"What's happening?" They cried. No one had an answer.

The lights lasted for less than a minute. The stillness that hung in the air thereafter could be considered more harrowing than the event itself. After a few minutes of the blithering crowd and the newswoman frantically chattering at the camera behind him, Gordon could stand it no longer.

"I'm going in!" He said and drew his revolver. Old-fashioned for this day and age, but it was reliable and familiar. He squeezed between two car hoods and marched straight for the warehouse. "Cover me!"

"Commissioner!" Charlie called after him.

"Don't worry, son! I've done this more times than I can count!"

He didn't make it halfway to the building when a roar sounded overhead. All eyes turned skyward to see a bat-shaped craft cast its shape in the moonlight. It decelerated and halted over the building, waiting. It was different, however. The usually sleek jet was carrying an extra part; a coffin-like bay on its underside. To the scrutinous observer, the jet appeared to drop a golfball-sized thing from a small compartment. There was a blast and the tinkle of broken glass as the warehouse's skylight was destroyed. A platform hissed and lowered from the Batwing, down through the building's roof. When it came back, it carried two additional shapes: the Dark Knight himself, his cape flowing like a flag in the wind, and a large, prone form stretched out on the platform. Cameras flashed incessantly, destined to become front-page headlines for tomorrow's papers. The platform withdrew into the storage piece as Batman climbed into the cockpit. Without another moment's hesitation, the craft thundered off into the night sky. Gordon sighed, holstered his pistol, turned, and strode back to the barricade.

"We're done here, boys." He told his subordinates. "Pack your things."

"Commissioner, Sir." Reno said. "He took the perp. Can... can he even do that?"

Gordon took off his glasses and wiped them clean with his shirt. "You know the rules, son. Finders-keepers." He donned them once more and looked into the sky. "And he sure does like to keep stuff."

* * *

The Batwing soared over the electricity-lit city of Gotham, his cargo secured within the heavy pickup attachment. The compartment was designed to handle things like large bombs and nuclear warheads; heavy, inanimate, could explode at any time. The thing he was carrying was certainly heavy. Inanimate, most certainly not. As for the third thing... he wasn't sure. Wouldn't surprise him in the least. In this line of work, the unexpected tended to happen on a regular basis.

Within the dim pilot's seat, surrounded by luminous widgets and switches, Batman pressed a button on the console. There was two and a half short rings before a light clatter was heard: the sound of someone picking up the phone. The masked vigilante spoke, the onboard microphone picking up his voice.

"Are you awake, Alfred?"

A groggy English accent droned on the other end. "Despite my best efforts, Sir."

"Good." He banked the jet towards the Manor. "I need you to make a run to the store. Women's undergarments. The biggest you can find."

"Bringing home _that_ sort of company tonight, Master Bruce?" He deadpanned.

He narrowed his eyes. "You have no idea."


End file.
